


What I Do for You

by babs



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babs/pseuds/babs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just what lengths will Jack go to for Daniel?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Do for You

Does someone mind telling me why I'm doing this? Why I, Jack O'Neill, am running to yet another grocery store at 2345 hours in a freaking rainstorm on a fool's errand?

Damn, another red light. All I was asking was for was a quiet few days at home. SG-1 was running ragged. You try having back to back missions where you spend time pissing off snakes and their Jaffa big time Yeah, that's right, you try it, because next time I'm sitting the round out. And our last mission? Happy, happy, joy, joy. A first contact planet on a beautiful planet: Daniel Jackson's idea of heaven. Except we spent our days in caves—damp, moldy, dark caves. Seems the folks there have this aversion to sunlight. And what do we come home to? Rain, rain and more rain. Whoever heard of rain in Colorado in February? Shouldn't this be snow?

Geez, lady, you have your sunglasses on or something? The light is green. In case you didn't know it, green means go. That's right, you put your foot on the gas and lo and behold, your car will go.

Yeah, same to you buddy. Learn to use a turn signal.

I turn into the parking lot at the Shop Rite. This is my last chance. I find a space close to the door and make a run for it. Just run between the drops, Jack, I can hear my mom's voice.

* * *

  
No, you can't lock the door yet. Your sign says you're open until midnight and it's 2354. I have six minutes to accomplish my mission.

I ignore the look of disgust the young kid at the shopping cart area gives me. Hey, buddy, you'll understand someday. Just pray that you don't have a pregnant wife who wakes you up at two in the morning telling you she just has to have anchovies and French dressing over ice cream. Not that Sara ever did that—thank God. No, Sara's craving was for vanilla pound cake that could only be bought at one bakery in Denver. And she always wanted it fresh.

One time I bought a cake and stuck it in the freezer. You know, just as insurance? Okay, we're not going to discuss what happened when I tried to offer her some. Let's just say, pissed off snake heads would have met their match in Sara at the moment.

Of course, not that I'm shopping for a pregnant wife now. Unless—hey, we've been to some pretty weird places. The image of a barefoot, big bellied Daniel has me nearly laughing out loud. I'm sure a chuckle escapes me. That must be why the woman spraying the fruit with water gives me a look like I'm a drunk.

I head back to the deli section mentally crossing my fingers and my toes. What is it with Colorado Springs anyway? Who hasn't heard of pistachio pudding?

Thank God, they have it. I size up the containers lining the deli counter and order a pound. That should make him happy. C'mon, how long can it possibly take to put a few big spoonfuls of green glop into a plastic container? Obviously it's going to take Tamara, the deli woman longer than it would take me because a phone rings and heaven forbid she'd actually finish waiting on me before answering.

"Yeah, yeah," I hear her say in a girly girl voice. "Nah, I should be home in about 20 minutes. Oh yeah, I'm looking forward to it too." And she gives a low throaty laugh after that comment. "Hey, look, I've gotta go. Have a customer. Yeah, well, sometimes they come in at the last minute."

Yes, yes, they do, and sometimes they spend lots of money which by the way I am so not going to do because I'm full of righteous indignation—Daniel Jackson's phrase not mine. I prefer pissed off.

You ever watch those court shows on TV? You know, like Judge Judy or People's Court and some yahoo is suing some other yahoo for something like 42 dollars over a bad haircut and when the judge asks them why, they say 'it's not the money, it's the principle' when you know damn well it is the money? Okay, well this is the principle not the money for real, because all I want is to get home, get out of my soaking wet clothes and into bed, preferably snuggled up next to a six foot blue eyed archaeologist. I'll be bringing offerings of pistachio pudding so I'm sure I'll get the melty smile that means he's astonished that I would actually go out in a freaking rainstorm in February to actually get him pistachio pudding just because he said, okay scratch that, he wrote that he was hungry for pistachio pudding.

Tamara hands me the container and I cruise to the front of the store to pay for Daniel's comfort food. I give a smile to the older woman who takes my money because now that my mission's accomplished I'm in a lot better mood. After all, I get to go home to Daniel and she doesn't. Poor woman.

The rain hasn't let up in the short time I've been inside and I run to my truck. I discover my mom's advice about running between the raindrops doesn't work. I think I'm going to have to send her an email about that little untruth. I also discover that you can't open a door without a key. I squint into the driver's side door. Yep, there they are, right in the ignition. I pat my jacket hunting for my cell phone and punch in speed dial 3.

"Hello?" A sleepy voice asks.

"Carter, that you?"

"Yes, sir. Is something wrong? Is Daniel..."

"Daniel's fine. I need you to come to the Shop Rite and pick me up."

" Sir, can't Daniel..." Is Carter actually whining?

"No, Carter, Daniel can't. He's been sick. Do you think I'm going to have him come out to pick me up in a rainstorm?" That's right, bring Daniel into the picture, get some sympathy points. "He got hungry for some food so I came to get him stuff and I left my keys in the truck."

"I'm on my way, sir." The phone clicks off on her end.

I knew appealing to Carter's Daniel button would have her coming in a heartbeat. Brilliant tactical move on my part.

It's not that Daniel's sick sick. He's got a rip roaring case of laryngitis. It started on our last mission—those lovely caves. Daniel's allergies, which aren't too much of an issue anymore with all of Doc Fraiser's blessed antihistamines, started acting up. I say blessed and mean it—you can't imagine what it was like to share a tent with a stuffed up Daniel Jackson. Let's just say we never had to worry about animals sneaking up on the camp. Daniel's snores were enough to scare away anything. But anyway, here he was sniffling away and doing this constant throat clearing thing that got annoying after awhile.

'Jack,' clear throat, 'I really think,' clear throat, 'that,' sneeze, blow nose, clear throat, 'this culture,' clear throat again.

Get the picture? By the time we got ready to leave, Daniel's voice sounded like he was reliving puberty with all its breaking and squeaking. Not only that, he started rubbing at his throat and finally admitted that it hurt like hell.

Doc Fraiser took a throat culture as a precaution and came back with the cheerful news that Daniel had laryngitis. Daniel promptly disagreed as technically he could still talk. It was a whisper but he could still talk.  
The doc then told him that in a day or two his throat probably wouldn't hurt anymore and that he might be able to whisper but he wasn't supposed to because it would put more strain on his vocal cords. You can imagine the happy camper I brought home with me two days ago.

A car horn beeps and Carter pulls up next to me.

* * *

  
She looks at me skeptically as I get in her car.

"What?"

"I thought you said you had to get food for Daniel, sir."

"I did." I hold up my small plastic container. "Pistachio pudding."

"Uh huh," She nods and pulls away. "If you give me your spare keys, I'll go back and turn the truck off for you." Carter offers. She opens her mouth to speak and then clicks it shut.

"Thanks, Carter." I watch her as she drives and see a myriad of expressions play across her face. She wants to say something, I just know it.

"Sir," She says finally as we make a right turn two street from mine, "why did you call me?"

"I told you Carter, I didn't expect Daniel to come out in this weather. Who else would I call?"

She shakes her head. Obviously there is some woman thing going on here that I'm missing. "I know that, sir. Why did you assume that I was home tonight?"

"We're on leave, Carter. I didn't think you'd be on base."

She glances away from the road for a moment, long enough to give me look that says don't be such a man. "Just forget it, sir."

"You've really got to give me a clue here, Carter."

"It's Valentine's Day sir." She finally says as we pull into my driveway. I don't even want to think about the fact that Carter knows that Daniel is here not at his apartment. "It's Valentine's Day." She glances at the clock in her dash, "Not anymore of course. But the point is, you called me at home."

I know my mouth is open as I stare at her. Of course I called her at home, and then it dawns on me. "What you think I think you're dateless or something?"

She just continues to shake her head. "Good night, sir. I'll wait for the keys."

I run into the house, grab the spare set of keys out the junk drawer and run them back out to her where she is just ending a call on her cell phone. She looks up guiltily as I tap on her window and she opens it just far enough to take the keys. I pretend I haven't noticed the cell phone.

"Thanks again, Carter." I say to her before dashing back into the house in the now not rainy night.

I can't resist. I have got to know. I hit speed dial 3 on the phone in the kitchen.

"Carter residence," A very familiar voice answers. A very familiar Jaffa voice. "Is anyone there?"

I hang up hoping that Teal'c doesn't know anything about star 69ing.  
Have I rubbed off on Carter that much?

I scoop out big spoonfuls of pistachio pudding into a dish. God, how Daniel can eat green pudding is beyond me. But hey, if it makes  
Daniel happy. How could I have resisted his request two hours ago? Yes, that's right two hours. I have been running all over Colorado Springs hunting for pistachio pudding on Valentine's Day night because Daniel, who hasn't eaten much more than broth the past two days because his throat hurt too much wrote down on the pad of paper he's been carrying like it's a lifeline, 'I'm hungry, Jack.'

I went to the kitchen, him following me. "What do you want?" I opened the refrigerator. Not that Daniel couldn't cook something if he wanted to, but hey, it's Valentine's Day, I wanted to do something for him. Not the kind of something you gutter minds are thinking, because I had that something planned for just a little bit later.

'Pistachio pudding.' Daniel wrote.

"I have chocolate pudding." I opened a cupboard door and pulled down a box.

Daniel shook his head. He underlined the pistachio three times and then looked at me. I swear in a previous life, Daniel was a Golden Retriever. He has that 'please, please' look down perfectly.

He grabbed at my arm as I went for my keys. I waited while he scrawled something across the pad. Poor Daniel. Trying to write as fast as he talks just isn't possible.

'That stuff they make in the deli section. With the pineapples and marshmallows in it.'

"Okay, got it. Be home soon." I was pulled close for a long kiss and then shooed out the door. That's me, Jack O'Neill, errand boy for Daniel Jackson.

The TV is off and the living room is dark. I grin as I walk towards the bedroom with the bowl of pudding. The bedroom light is on and I can hear the Andrea Bocelli CD that Daniel's put in.

I open the door cautiously and stop before the second foot is over the threshold. Disappointment isn't really the right word. I'm not sure what the right word is as I trudge back to the kitchen and dump the pudding back into the container and stick it back in the fridge.

I'm still hunting for the right word as I walk back to the bedroom. Hey, Daniel's the linguist, not me.

I ease out the legal pad from its resting place on Daniel's chest, smile as I read the Happy Valentine's Day, Jack written there, pick up the pen that is half under his hip, turn off the CD and undress.

My lover, my Daniel lies sprawled across his half of the bed and most of mind. I have to ease myself in gently, a maneuver I've managed to perfect over the past two years because if Daniel is disturbed in his boneless sprawl, he kicks the offending object. And let me tell you, bare feet can hurt.

I prop myself up on one elbow to look down at Daniel. His mouth is open, the right side of his face has a crease on it from where he's pushed it into the pillow, the left side of his jaw is wet from drool, and I think he's the most beautiful sight I've ever seen. The clock on the end table says it's 0100—too late for Valentine's Day after all. I reach for a tissue, wipe the drool off the side of his face and stretch out beside him.

And the word comes to me then. You know that word I was trying to think of when I first came in the bedroom and saw Daniel asleep instead of awake and all the plans I had going up in smoke?

The word? Love.

  



End file.
